


Lancet

by virusq



Category: Final Fantasy IV
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, No Sex, TW: Blood, alternate ending?, tw: fighting, tw: self destructive tendencies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 12:26:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13053975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virusq/pseuds/virusq
Summary: Kain Highwind has spent so much time running from his sins that he’s never stopped to accept them. Rosa forgave him. Cecil forgave him. Baron forgave him. His persecution perpetuates solely within himself.There’s no hiding from his demons, now.





	Lancet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [muffin_song](https://archiveofourown.org/users/muffin_song/gifts).



They're locked in a dance.

Blades flash in the Baron sunlight. Their brothers gather to watch them spar. Kain is light on his feet, owning the distance between their bodies with an acrobatic grace only known to lancers. Cecil's own moves are lighter and faster than anticipated beneath the dark shroud of black steel.

Kain steps fast and twists his wrists, lancing his spear up between Cecil’s sword and body. The dark knight pivots, allowing the metal to slice past his upper arm instead of his chest. Cecil twists, the rasp of midnight steel against the cobblestones beneath them, wrapping his sword arm around the lance and pulls Kain toward him. Kain sees it, sees the dark knight’s shield angling to batter him to the ground and coming up fast. He can feel the air being forced from his chest as the shield slams into him and rejects it. Digging his own feet into the ground, Kain wrenches his javelin back with every survival instinct rebelling against the clatter in his skull. Cecil’s arm comes at him, pulled along the shaft of the spear, and becomes trapped between Kain’s breastplate and pauldrons. The speartip free, Kain pivots it behind the shield and thrusts. The cold steel finds purchase between the plates at Cecil’s ribs and the man cries out.

Confusion flashes across their merry features. This isn't how this works. They've never actually hurt each other. This is practice. And the blood is very real. Kain cries out for help and the men are gone. They stand alone, injured and dying.

Cecil’s knees buckle beneath him, his sheer mass pulling him to the ground. Kain recoils in horror, the spear lodged in his best friend. His brother. His lover. His king.

Cecil laughs, a sick gurgle that pains Kain to the center of his being. He tells him not to worry.

Kain falls to his knees, screaming in rage and protest.

“No!”

\--

Kain jolts upright in his bed, dripping sweat and chest heaving for air. The future king of Baron sleeps beside him, whole and unbloodied. His breathing even and deep with peaceful slumber.

Kain can’t breathe. The nightmare wasn’t real but the blood is still on his hands. He can’t see it, they can’t see it, but he feels it every time he closes his eyes.

The nightmares keep coming, an after effect of acts he’s committed against crown and country beneath Golbez. Cecil forgave him, wholehearted and without question. Rosa forgave him, bruising still fresh from his hand. Together they worked to drive back the darkness and defeat Zeromus. The tyrant’s body wasn’t cold before Cecil pulled him into a familiar embrace and Rosa’s gentle hands healed their wounds. They love him, despite his sins.

And he …

He shakes his head and wipes the sweat from his face with both hands. Careful not to disturb the sleeping paladin, he curls around the man and buries his face into the back of his neck. Soft curls of pale hair brush against Kain’s cheeks and he inhales, desperate to lose his night terrors in the comfort of acceptance.

They forgave him. Cecil forgave him.

\--

A good leader knows his men. Cecil has always been a good leader. Kain follows him loyally through his new routine as king. Somehow, somewhere deep within his heart, Kain has always known Cecil would be king. The thought was repressed as a childhood fantasy, buried under years of political scheming and mountains of books, but here they are: a king and his knight.

They walk along the training grounds, among rows of young fighters sparring. Their weapons are blunted but there’s no substitution for the weight of steel in one’s hands for a warrior. It startles Kain when Cecil presses one of the training blades into his hand.

“Do you miss it?” Cecil asks, thin lips spread ear to ear in his youthful exuberance. “The weight? The sweat? The musical ring of blade against blade?”

“No,” Kain answers, thankful his blanched face may just possibly counterbalance the redness in his cheeks under Cecil’s stare. “Not at all, my lord.”

“Would you go a round? With me?” The delicate lines around Cecil’s pale eyes crinkle, just enough to suggest Cecil knows exactly what he’s asking. Kain furrows his brow. Has he started talking in his sleep? Did Rosa put them up to this? Cecil’s hand squeezes his and Kain feels the corded grip biting into his palm.

Kain grimaces. These are blunted blades. “As you wish.”

Kain removes his helmet and Cecil climbs into a borrowed gambeson, the extra padding relieving some of the tension between Kain’s shoulders. Cecil spins his sword in a casual arc and Kain opens and closes his grip a few times, testing the heft of the sword.

They swords are blunted. Cecil is armored. The fight is supervised. There are healers, visible on the field. This is fighting one’s fears in a controlled situation, Kain reassures himself.

Cecil charges.

Kain doesn’t have time to do anything but defend. The man’s movements are so much more swift and determined than he remembers. Their most recent battles hadn’t provided the opportunity for him to study the his companions’ movements. The king moves so gracefully compared to the dark knight he once knew; so free and unburdened.

Kain can barely keep up, let along lash out. His attempts to retaliate are fumbles, at best, hindered by heavier armor and personal guilt.

When the opportunity presents itself, Kain strikes out and watches Cecil’s blade soar past his shoulder in a wide arc. A terrified look streaks across the man’s brow as Kain’s sword hits something unexpectedly solid. And sticks. 

Cecil drops his sword, as the muscles in his arm spasm. Blood trickles down his shirt, beneath his gambeson. Kain’s eyes widen as he removes the sword and rushes forward to steady his friend. He’s met with a barrage of spears and angry guards, waiting for a single word from their king. 

Cecil’s hands weave under his shirt. He closes his eyes and whispers an arcane prayer, flooding sobbing relief through Kain’s senses. The flesh knits and binds beneath the paladin’s touch and Kain tries desperately to focus his king’s lips as they their newfound magic instead of the blood pooling in his left hand.

Cecil retracts his hand from beneath his shirt and an aide appears to help him to his feet. Cecil smiles, soothing the hackles raised around the proving grounds and lowering the weapons at Kain’s throat. Cecil rests a reassuring hand on Kain’s shoulder. “What happened?”

Kain chokes down a sob and finds his senses, mustering his most convincing grin despite the torment roiling within him. “You took pity on an aging sword, my lord.”

Cecil exhales. “Next time, we’ll try archery.”

The men laugh. Cecil laughs. Kain chuckles despite the pain the effort rakes him with. Sweat drips down the back of his neck, the experience more than he’s willing to process in front of an army, and Kain excuses himself.

Some things can’t be fixed with magic.

\--

Kain screams and slams his gauntleted fist against the crystal wall of the cave. 

He made the journey to the top of Mount Ordeals in the vain attempt to find peace. Cecil swore some demons could only be fought alone, against the reflection of one’s soul. And here he stands, weeks later, tormented by silence and his own recurring nightmares.

He slams his fist against the wall again, angered by the futility of the violence. And again. And again. The more he punches the wall, the more his knuckles bleed. His body aches and his screams go unanswered.

The dragoon collapses to his knees, a sobbing heap of frustration and self doubt.

Tears blur his vision when the shadowy figure appears in the multifaceted surface. Kain has only a second to find his feet and his spear after he realizes it’s not his own reflection. The figure looms, clad in the dark armor of a knight, one dear to his heart, and Kain hesitates before bringing up his spear.

His fists clench and unclench around the spear, dreading the cold thought that his demons manifest are Cecil himself. It’s impossible; he’d rather die in the dark than to live in a world without the light that man radiates.

The figure steps forth, measured and confident, wielding a spear. It’s him, his own reflection, a shadow of a man once known as a Highwind Dragoon. And he lunges, spear tip glinting in the light.

Kain strafes right to avoid the blade, mentally disoriented by the idea that his reflection does not mimic his moves. The opposing spear bites at him again and he ducks. A third strike is caught by a blessed movement of his own shaft, diverting the momentum of his opponent.

Kain plants a foot and rolls his hip, striking out with his own lance. The figure sways and reforms like a shadow split with light, his spear never striking the intended target. He reaches the mystifying conclusion that his opponent is non-corporeal, then catches the flat of the shaft across his shoulder, sending him unexpectedly sprawling across the floor.

He springs to his feet with renewed vigor. If his opponent can hit him, he must be able to hit his opponent.

They dance, feet light and spear-tips fireflies in the dark. Each strike intended for his opponent is dodged, increasing the tenacity and speed of the shadow. It wears on Kain, physically and emotionally. The harder he tries to defeat the demon, the more it tears at him. The strikes get harder and faster, and soon enough Kain finds his feet too heavy to keep up the charade.

The shadow strikes him in the helmet and, once again, the dragoon goes sprawling. His head tossed backward, helmet flying off to clatter at the far end of the cavern. There’s no hiding from his demons, now.

And that’s when it hits him. He’s spent so much time running from his sins that he’s never stopped to accept them. Rosa forgave him. Cecil forgave him. Baron forgave him. His persecution perpetuates solely within himself.

He laughs, sure the madness has finally taken him, and sits up. The shadow stalks around him, watching as he unlatches his chestplate and tosses it to the floor. Kain raises his arms out to his sides, exposing his sweat drenched breast to his demons. It can’t touch him. It can’t hurt him more than he’s already hurt himself.

Except it can. And it does. The spear lances through him, strong and true. The cold, chilling reality of laying his soul bare hits him, the terrifying heat of survival escaping from the wound. He growls, determined and stubborn as ever, and wraps both hands around the shaft of the spear, anchoring it in place. The shadow struggles to regain control and Kain laughs, the dark, maddening laugh of a dying man.

\--

Kain awakens in the cave, a shaft of light from the maw carving its path along his line of vision. He flinches away from it instinctively, as he comes to. Just as quickly, the sits up and searches the room for his opponent.

But he’s alone. The only evidence of his struggle the cold and sore muscles. There’s no body, no blood, no spear. His fingers survey his chest and find no wound, no scar, no bruising. The crystal wall is still. The only sound he can hear is his own heart beating. He collapses back to the floor and spans his arms across it, revelling in the frigid sensation of cold stone against his skin and feeling oddly giddy at the notion of being alive.

He’s alone and the voices aren’t tormenting him. The darkness isn’t lashing out at him. There’s an unfamiliar sense of joy flooding all the dark corners which guilt has left him. Hot tears stream down the sides of his face, and he lets them. 

Kain giggles.

\--

There’s a dance in his step, when Kain returns to Baron. 

He left the blood stained armor and spear on that blasted hill and feels lighter for it. Cecil has been coronated in his absence, but he’s not dispirited that he missed it. Cecil was always king and a good king knows his men.

When Kain enters the court, he tries to be discreet, but Cecil spots him immediately. The king excuses himself from the small ring of leadership he’s engrossed in and rushes across the crowd to embrace his friend. His companion. His lover.

“Kain,” Cecil all but whispers against his cheek, “I’ve missed you so.”

“Cecil,” Kain surveys the crowd, which has turned to observe the excitement and dismiss it just as quickly. Their relationship is the worst kept secret in Baron. Some things never change. Cecil releases their hug and Kain offers a bow. “My king.”

Cecil’s violet eyes widen and he holds out his hands, shaking with excitement. “Well? What happened?”

“If you can believe it,” Kain grins mischievously. “I lost a fight.”

Cecil laughs, tears pooling around his eyes. It’s a good laugh, one that warms Kain to his core. A ray of light to guide his way in the darkest hours. He can see it, now that his vision isn’t tainted with darkness and self loathing. 

He forgave himself.


End file.
